


However Improbable

by Abby_Ebon



Series: It's Not A Rabbit Hat [40]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-19 02:01:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abby_Ebon/pseuds/Abby_Ebon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>XandyNZ<br/>Harry Potter/Sherlock(BBC) crossover prompt;<br/>John Watson is a wizard, and what Sherlock doesn't know may change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. However Improbable

**Author's Note:**

> XandyNZ  
> Harry Potter/Sherlock(BBC) crossover prompt;  
>  **...**  
>  _..._  
>  ** _“I sort of had the idea that John was related to someone in the HP world (maybe Hermione?_** Because she's pretty smart herself) who came to visit at 221B (maybe during the 7th book or something, before they go on the run, you know, the part after they escape the wedding into Muggle London, and need somewhere to stay), **_and Sherlock just deduces everything about their situation, and that there is still a magical world, and then maybe he decides to help them,_** because he really wants to do experiments on all the magical things or something, and he can't do that if there's a magical civil war going on... or maybe one where **_John was a childhood friend of Severus Snape and Lily Evans while growing up, and then he meets Harry_** or something (maybe after the 7th book, where he goes to the funeral or something? Or bumps into the Golden Trio sometime, and immediately recognizes Harry as Lily's son from the eyes, or some other similar characteristic (because there's so much emphasis on how much Harry's got Lily's eyes, I think it'd be nice if John, knowing his friends so well, would be able to pick up other similarities - maybe they have the same temper, the same way of speaking? etc.)
> 
> You suggested that after Hermione makes her parents forget about her in the 7th book, the rest of her relatives (read: the Holmes) go to find her.”
> 
> \----
> 
> AN: …yeah, what is bolded and italicized is pretty much where I think this came from in the prompt. Opps?

Everyone lies, some lies are harmless, called _little white lies_ and some lies…some lies could cause the very world as we know it to end. John Watson knew a few of those lies, and had told some by admission.

 

There are things about John Watson that Sherlock Holmes doesn’t know; simply for his own safety.

 

Sherlock deduces that John carries himself like he’s military- he’s tan, he went to Afghanistan (or Iraq when it was _and Iraq_ ); even that he’s trained in St. Bartholomew's Hospital. It’s all quite logically brilliant, and for the most part Sherlock Holmes is correct. But, as Sherlock himself says – there is always _something_.

 

What that something is, is this; John Watson went to Hogwarts, that he had N.E.W.T.s of a grade E in the subjects of Transfiguration, Potions, Charms, Herbology and Defense Against the Dark Arts. He had both St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries and the Ministry of Magic clamoring for him to be a Healer - or an Auror. His ‘training’ in St. Bartholomew's Hospital had more to do with blending in with doctors and nurses than any ‘modern’ medical learning – because John Watson had chosen to become both a Auror and a Healer.

 

John had been further jointly trained under Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody andMadam Poppy Pomfrey – he went on assignment in Afghanistan in an attempt to find the golden fleece of Jason. It’s forgotten by muggles, but by wizards and witches it said to be stolen back by the witch Medea as she fled the Corinthians, later inherited by her son Medus, the half brother of Theseus, who traveled with his mother to Colchis and came to rule there.

 

That Medus or his mother Medea had made pact with a people of the land than called Aria; what called Ecbatana their city; the people had been called the Medes thereafter, their land had been Media. John Watson and his Auror team had brought it back, and it was kept locked away in the Department of Mysteries – for whatever good it did there, it might just have done better to stay where it had been kept.

 

That was not to say he had not fought, he had, and had the muggle star-burst scar upon his shoulder to prove it. Wizards and witches weren’t meant to fight the muggle way, just as muggles could not fight with magic. It did something to them. It was why he had a psychosomatic limp and the intermittent tremor in his wand hand. It was why he was now a _retired_ Auror, those nightmares; he couldn’t get rid of them. It was why he was bitter enough to admit it.

 

“Nothing ever happens to me.” He’d been away, and hadn’t been able to do anything for Lily when the Dark Lord had found out the secret keeper, Sirius Black. It wasn’t until Clara Granger called him from the Ministry of Magic that he realized something had happened; was still _happening_. Harry Potter named for John’s own older sister Harriet – Clara’s wife – was missing. John had to find him – and he knew the place to start looking. He put aside his gun and picked up his wand, deciding he’d best not leave his flat without it.

 

“Sherlock, I’m going out for a bit.” Sherlock spared him not so much as a glance as he fussed with beakers and what looked like bits of colored paper. He waved absently, as John opened the door, stepped past the door, and disappeared with the pop of displaced air.

 

Sherlock paused and frowned toward the closed door, going to open it. He narrowed his eyes not to see any sign of John Watson.  

 

0o0o0

 

Apparition at Spinner's End, childhood home of Severus Snape, perhaps should have been done with more caution. As it was, John Watson found himself at wand point when he opened his eyes. His hand clenched about his own wand, but he would not raise it yet against one of his oldest friends – no matter what Clara had said about him having the Dark Mark. There had to be good reason for it, and John would hear Severus out before he passed judgment.

 

“Hello, Severus.” He kept his tone calm, and Severus’s dark eyes widened in surprise. He put away his wand with more haste than any kind of style.

 

“John.” Severus greeted him soft and surprised; he didn’t look as if he’d been taking care of himself.

 

“Your wrist, Severus….” John looked to his friend’s hands, and Severus swallowed and looked aside.

 

“Clara is not wrong, John. I took the Dark Mark.” John took his friend’s hands, looking to each one, hissing as he caught sight of the black mar against Severus’s pale skin. They looked wrong there, like bruises. 

 

“ _Why_?” John demanded, he had been an Auror – Severus had to know how this looked, it looked like betrayal. John had almost not come, simply for what Severus had done.

 

“Lily chose…chose James, and I, I had no one John – you were off, and I was so angry, I…did it to spite our friendship, for it seemed to me I was alone. I am so sorry John. I’ve tried to make it right, I spied for Albus Dumbledore – joined the Order of the Phoenix, like you – like Lily…please believe me.” Severus had never looked so earnest, so honest – so painfully young. John closed his eyes, pained.

 

“What of Harry, Lily’s boy?” Severus glanced to the grounds of Spinner's End, not far from this very house, Severus had played with Lily and Harriet and Clara and John. They had been the best of friends – and what had happened to them? They had grown up, grown apart.  

 

“He’s safe John, Albus assures me of it. He’s living now with Petunia.” John hissed in surprise. Severus had never known Lily’s sister, he likely thought her baby safe in the care of his mother’s family – but Severus had never seen Petunia save for a handful of times.

 

“He’s _my godson_ , Severus.” John couldn’t help being pained with it – why had no one gotten word to him? Being the boy’s godfather, he had the right to take him in, to raise him.

 

“So he is, John – so he is. What would you have me do?” Severus stood so near him, but did not meet his eyes.

 

“I’m responsible for him, Severus. I need to find him.” It was the truth, and John couldn’t help but try to do the right thing. Everything else had gone so…wrong.

 

“Than what, John…will you take care of a baby? Take him form the only blood family he’s got left?” Blood meant something to wizards and witches, pureblood or muggleborn. It would not earn John any favor if he claimed the Boy Who Lived as his own.

 

“If I must…Petunia must know that she has that option, Severus – it is not fair to thrust the responsibility of raising a wizard onto a muggle, or anybody.” John knew it, because Harriet had had to grow up to raise him, and she had resented it, but done it to keep the family together. He didn’t want Harry Potter to be raised like that. He wanted his godson to be raised knowing he was loved, and wanted.

 

“What, do you think she does not want him?” Severus asked, frowning in confusion.

 

“That is exactly what I think.” John confessed, and Severus looked horrified.

 

“I do not know where they are, John…where do we even begin looking?” John tilted his head with a small smile. A wizard navigating the muggle world would be lost; it was simply a different world, just as a muggleborn had a hard time of it in the magical world. It was the greatest protection Harry Potter had, that wizards looking for him would not know how to begin looking – but John knew one of the cleverest of muggles.            

    

“We will start by asking Sherlock Holmes.” John stated, at Severus’s frown, he smiled.

 

“He’s my flat mate.”

 

0o0o0

 

There isn’t really a good way to ask your flat mate to find a baby for you. So, John just tries his best.

 

“Sherlock…if I wanted you to find someone for me, would you?” Sherlock pauses in tuning his violin, tilting his head as he quietly regards John Watson. John doesn’t look away, even though he knows he could quickly break that studying stare. A part of him wonders if Sherlock knows all he has tried to keep from – for surely he suspects.

 

“The way you left yesterday, to go out so quickly – I suppose it was a partly successful meeting. You’ve been looking for someone since you got that call from your sister’s wife. It’s personal, so you didn’t think I would be of much help. Yet, there is something you’ve been keeping from me.” Sherlock’s fingers curl against the violin cords, the distance in his tone makes it plain he feels hurt by what he perceives as John’s distance.

 

Not that Sherlock expects John to pick up the subtle clues. Yet he’s surprised, John might not notice _things_ like Sherlock, but he has fought in wars and healed people from sicknesses. Judging people is something John is very, very good at.

 

“Yes, there is.” John doesn’t bother to hide that truth; neither does he yet confess it. It is something very, very puzzling, and personal.

 

“Will you help me, now?” Sherlock knows that John isn’t going to be giving him answers like _why_ or _who_ – and Sherlock is fine with that, he almost prefers it.

 

“Do you trust me?” Sherlock asks in turn.

 

“With my life...” Sherlock notices that John is the sort of man who does not much value his own life, but it is enough – because Sherlock prizes John’s life and budding partnership.  

 

“You will have to give me at least part of the name of who you are looking for.” Sherlock states and John puts his lips together and nods firmly.

 

“When I knew her almost thirteen years ago, her name was Petunia Evans. I think she’s married, might have a child of her own – but she has a nephew who I don’t believe she should be guardian of.” John meets Sherlock’s eyes, and Sherlock nods once, very surely.

 

“I will look into her.” John takes Sherlock at his word, for he gets up and goes, leaving Sherlock alone to do what he does best – find people, solve puzzles – and there is one thing Sherlock is sure of, whoever John went to meet yesterday he goes to meet again today. John is gone from the staircase without taking more than a step out from behind a closed door; there is no sound of footsteps upon the stair, no familiar tread of feet in the hallway.

 

John Watson isn’t anywhere in the building, Sherlock knows, because he looked yesterday. This too, is a mystery that Sherlock seeks to answer, and maybe in solving one, he will find a clue to the other.

 

0o0o0

 

“4 Privet Drive in Little Whinging, Surrey.” Sherlock tells John, as he steps through the door – as if afraid that John will disappear for good without Sherlock saying _something_. It’s silly but not an altogether unreasonable theory with what Sherlock has been observing. It can’t all be faked, or explained, it’s real he’s sure, for John wouldn’t go this far for a prank.  

 

“Hello and good evening to you too...” John sounds confused, but smiles when Sherlock looks up to judge his expression at Sherlock’s answer.

 

“So what’s this about Surrey?” John asks when it is clear Sherlock won’t say anything more unless prompted to.

 

“4 Privet Drive in Little Whinging, Surrey is where that Petunia Evans is living, Mrs. Dursley, I should say now. She lives with her husband Mr. Vernon Dursley and a son, Dudley – you’re information about the nephew is not incorrect, he was enrolled in nursery school and there have been reports of strange bruises and scrapes upon the boy, one Harry Potter - brushed under the rug for a not insignificant sum of money.” Sherlock is very curious as to just what John will do hearing this, and he is not disappointed.

 

John is pale and sickly looking with shock, as if he’s been punched in the gut, and he turns quickly to the door – and is gone, just as the times before. He did not go down the stairs, did not go down the hall, and did leave by the door of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes is almost entirely sure – but he must be positive, it is his sanity he risks.

 

0o0o0

 

John Watson comes back to 221B Baker Street the ordinary way, walking through the door, up the stairs, in the hall and opening the door to their apartment. This is largely due, Sherlock does not doubt, due to the two year old toddler napping in John’s arms. It is a sight that Sherlock does not know what to make of – he never thought to see it. When Sherlock thought of the future at all, it was only of John with Sherlock in this flat, solving the great games.

 

Now there was this – a baby.

 

“Are you going to keeping him?” Sherlock asks, just to be sure, because there is always something.

 

“He’s my godson, Sherlock. Yes, I’ll keep him – do you have a problem with that?” John’s eyes narrow upon Sherlock sprawled on the couch, watching the pair, man and baby, with an arm flung over his face.

 

“No, he’s the only family of yours I’ve met. I’m honored to meet a member of your family, John – he’s the first I’ve seen, do you know how odd that is? I thought it was my oddity, my influence, but it’s not that is it? It’s something else, something I think I’ve worked out.” Sherlock trails off, as a toddler’s sleepy green eyes open to see him. He tries to smile, and those eyes gleam with more than the usual intelligence, and he’s smiled back at most charmingly. 

 

“Oh?” John wonders, half humoring Sherlock as he lets down the now fussing godson. Who promptly makes his way in a waddling walk over to Sherlock, his hair is wild and black and doesn’t look like it’s ever been brushed. Sherlock lets himself be climbed up on. 

 

“He’s at the age of terrible-twos, isn’t he? How appropriate it is that we meet, Mr. Potter.” Sherlock is sure that John’s godson is quite safe while using Sherlock as his perch, he kicks his legs cheerfully – and carefully, he does not kick Sherlock’s side. It is a caution not learned, but taught – and not carefully, but harshly, and it isn’t a curiosity to Sherlock that the boy chooses the highest place to sit, where he can see everything and everyone.

 

“Har’y.” The boy’s protest is a pout, and Sherlock nods thoughtfully.

 

“Harry, I think you and your godfather are very special. In fact, I think that there is something about you that is more than unique, isn’t that right John?” Sherlock doesn’t look to his flat mate, his friend, his partner. He hears John’s sharply inhaled breath. John has been careful, almost too careful, but Sherlock both sees and observes.

 

“Magic.” Sherlock Holmes says the word, and Harry Potter cringes as if he’s been hurt from hearing that word.

 

“ _Sherlock_!” John’s voice rings out in warning, harsh and sharp. John has never spoken so to him, he has had ‘the Captain’ tone, someone who has known and dealt in power and authority, but never has John sounded as if he thinks Sherlock is a threat.

 

“Can’t tell, have to be normal, hides it.” Harry says softly, looking at Sherlock wide eyed.

 

“You don’t have to anymore, I _know_. I won’t let anyone hurt you. You’re safe.” Harry lays his head on Sherlock’s chest hearing his heartbeat. Little green eyes peek up at John.

 

“Truth...” Harry blurts out, and Sherlock thinks Harry is bolder and braver than he is, for he hasn’t dared look to John.

 

“You knew - how?” It’s a sharp accusation coming form a man Sherlock thinks of as his friend.

 

“How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth…” There is always, Sherlock knows without saying, always _something_.

 

John ruffles Harry’s hair, and shares a smile with Sherlock.


	2. Murder May I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CryKing's prompt:
> 
> ..oh..oh no...  
> Baby Harry is being watched by Sherlock - Mrs Hudson goes for groceries and John is at work and Sherlock gets a call from Lestrade to come to a murder scene...and Sherlock can't just leave Harry alone because John said to watch him...and so Sherlock takes baby Harry with him...
> 
> (This takes place sometime after ch. 44 However Improbable)

Harry is starting to fuss, being woken from his crib and his nap that John had put him down for before leaving for the evening shift; the phone is ringing, and Sherlock is all alone in a world that suddenly doesn't make sense no matter how much he tries to wrap his mind around it.

'How did this happen?' Sherlock wonders, unknowingly echoing words that he's going to be hearing coming from John Watson before the day is out. Sherlock practices juggling Harry on his hip, because the two year old opened those green eyes and saw him and reached up with grabby hands that Sherlock knew he would regret ignoring. There might be shrieking involved.

Sherlock didn't dare to risk it He answers that blasted ringing – because, oh no, the caller isn't one of those rare clever people who call once and get a message machine and leave a message and take a hint – no, he – or she – is one of those who call over and over and over again until Harry's taken notice and starts to whine about it. He nuzzles into Sherlock's throat, yawning and rubbing his eyes, wide awake now.

"If you haven't got a very, very good reason for calling – if this is some telemarketer or automated add message – I'm going to end you." Sherlock Holmes rarely makes threats, he prefers more…unorthodox and subtle methods, but when he uses them, he means them – and he is always, always serious sounding. Unfortunately the familiar man at the other end of the line is undaunted by all of it.

"Sherlock, this is Inspector Lestrade – I'm glad you can pick up a phone, now I've sent Officer Patton to pick you up and come directly here. No excuses, there has been a murder at London Bridge." The call ends promptly, no by your leave, or if you could nor if your not busy babysitting. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"And John says I lack social skills." Sherlock tells baby Harry, because he's been told not to talk to skulls or other former living things and-or inanimate objects while Harry is about, at John's order. The weekend with the Union Jack pillow jumping about and barking was quite enough to cure Sherlock of that. Sherlock would not have to go looking for another roommate, so its John's orders are – mostly – taken to heart.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock shouts, and Harry hollers with him, and no one answers or comes running. Of course, because that's just the sort of day it is, with people calling him and demanding things and no one doing the same for him. Share and share alike, but the world's not fair as even Harry well knows. Sherlock goes looking for her, because that's just the sort of person he is, and he doesn't take long to find the note.

_Sherlock & John_

_Gone shopping for the little Harry, be back about five._

"Perfect." Sherlock snarls at the paper, as it's two hours too late and Lestrade won't wait - and Harry suckles at his thumb and watches him with wide green eyes. Sherlock knows Harry at almost three can babble more than talk, his vocabulary is better and better by the day - but if something ever comes out of his mouth that's remotely a swear-word, John might do something regrettable to Sherlock.

"Well, there no helping it, Harry, you are coming with me to a murder." John might have indulged Sherlock about the laptop, but Lestrade isn't the sort to take proper advantage of the advances in technology that may allow Sherlock to solve every case without leaving Harry alone in their flat.

"Help murder?" Harry bites his lip, and frowns, looking for the entire world as if he's considering it. The words not utterly unfamiliar to Harry now, despite John's attempts to shield him from what they do, but he still doesn't grasp their full meaning, and Sherlock stifles a laugh that might have a bit of hysteria in it.

"No, no thank you Harry. You're not to ever help anyone murder someone; least of all your godfather John to murder me. Ok?" Sherlock knows it's a logical argument, to take Harry along with him – because John Watson and Mrs. Hudson had made it adamantly clear Harry was never to be left alone without someone to watch him – or with a stranger. So that left Sherlock with Harry and a crime scene.

Saying no to Lestrade might result in arrest, and Sherlock thought it better that John found him solving a crime scene with a toddler like it was a Sunday stroll rather than bailing him out of jail with a baby.

"Ok!" Harry chirps quite happy to make Sherlock happy. If only it could stay that way forever. Officer Patton is a woman with a badge, and doesn't expect Sherlock Holmes to have a baby – that much is clear from the blank look on her face and the wide shocked eyes.

"Here, hold this." Sherlock passes her what John call's the baby bag, but it's more like a lady's purse, and Harry isn't letting her hold Harry while going down stairs in front of her. So he lends the way to the obvious police cruiser, and gets in the passenger side while he waits for Officer Patton to get in and pass him the baby bag.

She doesn't say a word the whole way there, but that's likely because Harry is babbling about all the sights he sees and Sherlock is pointing out what he misses and praising him on what he spots that isn't as obvious as a car being blue. It's a game the two of them play that never fairs to amuse John to no end.

The cruiser pulls up to the curb and Sherlock puts the baby bag on his shoulder and gets out as Harry waves to Officer Patton, who doesn't quite succeed in hiding her charmed smile from Sherlock Holmes.

"What's this?" Sally Donovan demands, as if Sherlock's in the habit of kidnapping toddlers and not catching killers. Harry is still in the habit of clinging when he meets new people – not that Sherlock blames him. Sgt. Sally Donovan isn't a very nice looking… lady… when she sneers at him. Them.

"Who, not what, Sergeant Donovan - this is Harry Potter, John's godson." Sherlock sneers right back at her, his back straight and proud. Harry is his – and John's – and Sherlock's already asked Mycroft to make the paperwork go through all proper like.

"Of course...it doesn't matter who he is Sherlock, little boy's don't belong at homicides." Sally tells him with a roll of her eyes. She's still suspicious, but she doesn't look so ready and willing to take Harry from him. A good thing too, because Harry likes to bite.

"I know that, but Lestrade wouldn't wait and we haven't got any sitters, the interviewers are still having their backgrounds checked." Very thoroughly, by Sherlock and Mycroft both – but Sally Donovan doesn't need to know that.

"Well, he's certainly the youngest yet." Anderson states, as if he isn't surprised by Sherlock, he's not – he expects the worst of Sherlock, who before John and Harry and Lestrade, hadn't had a reason to be better. Anderson's seen at his lowest – but Sherlock's vowed he never will again.

"Ah, Anderson, couldn't call in sick today?" Sherlock doesn't pause to see what the other man – or Sally – makes of what he says, but continues on to where the most people are coming and going. Naturally that would be where the victim is, because everyone wants to come and see and contaminate a crime scene. Sherlock's never had more proof than at a crime scene that despite tools, people are still barbarians itching for blood. He's never needed it.

"Sherlock…" Lestrade starts to say, turning to greet him – but Harry, despite standing no higher than his knee, is somehow all that everyone sees. It's useful knowledge, and in the wrong setting could be dangerous. Sherlock ignores Lestrade's sudden tension and new signs of stress in favor of studying the dead man.

"Harry, say hello, this is Lestrade." John says that Harry should meet new people, and not be rude, so Sherlock absently instructs him at it, and hand Harry over to Lestrade. He's not a stranger, and Sherlock is within sight, so Harry shouldn't fuss too much.

"Hullo, Le – Lee…" Harry's mouth moves, tongue and lips silently trying to mimic Sherlock's effortless pronouncing of a strange name. Sherlock would coach him at it, but Lestrade only looks helplessly between the toddler and Sherlock.

"Please tell me he's not been kidnapped." Sherlock rolls his eyes, but decides to answer. While teasing him might be funny and entertaining, the results might be regretful.

"No, he's John's godson, and we are taking care of him now." Sherlock doesn't say how long – let Lestrade assume it's only for a bit, that Harry has proper parents somewhere.

"Lover's spat, I'm afraid. You should check with London Streets, as he's likely employed there." Sherlock gestures for Harry to come to him, and Harry readily obeys – wiggling from Lestrade's hands and leaping into Sherlock's,

"Who, the victim?" Lestrade frowns as he reaches for his notebook in his pocket, as Harry settles down and yawns against Sherlock's side. Sherlock thinks it's just in time for another nap.

"No, his boyfriend. I'm sure they'll have their address too." Sherlock says, over his shoulder, as he hails a cab and gets in. There is a familiar ring tone, and Harry grins up at him while Sherlock fumbles for it, cringing within.

"Dada, Papa, Dada!" Mycroft thinks its fitting justice that John gets called 'Dada' and Sherlock's a 'Papa'. He never has said anything, but his smirk is proof enough. The downside to any murder is the news crews and their cameras.

"How did this happen? Sherlock, what were you thinking?" Sherlock Holmes would do anything to delay that conversation and distract John Watson (who sounds bloody furious) so Sherlock passes the phone to Harry. John's weakness, the one weapon that Sherlock knows John won't dismiss.

"Harry here, Dada wants to talk to you – tell him all about our day." Harry does so, gladly and enthusiastically, leaving no detail not mentioned. Sherlock's never been prouder.


	3. Not A Nanny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> e.elusive’s prompt: 
> 
> I would love a continuation of chapter 44 with baby Harry growing up with John and Sherlock and perhaps with Snape involved somehow

“It’s going to keep happening, you know.” Sherlock Holmes says in greeting to John, and he’s not talking about the mess that Harry had made of the living room. A toy set of musical interments and other curious children’s toys that Sherlock had had shipped here from around the world – not that the flat is any more or less dirty then it’s ever been. He’s talking about what happened, what he’s avoided talking about until now – taking a toddler to a crime scene, because he’s found the list of nursery’s John has been looking into.

 

It had only been a matter of time, John knew.

 

“No, Sherlock, it’s not. Not ever again. Do you understand?” In this John Watson is firm, he won’t have Lily’s baby knowing people kill people before he’s finished teething. Sherlock had handed Harry off to Lestrade, and that had distracted the toddler enough that he hadn’t looked down to see what Sherlock was doing, to notice a dead man’s body and Sherlock’s study of it.

 

That wouldn’t be the case all the time, Sherlock had gotten lucky – but luck ran out – and John didn’t want to have to explain what death and dying and dead meant, because he wouldn’t leave _that_ to Sherlock. It was an enough of a mess already. Harry was fussy and kicking and yelling and acting out, and John knew why as well as Sherlock did. It was them.    

 

“Do you really think I had a choice? I can’t help who I am John – and neither can you – we can’t hide who we are from him, nor should we. What was I to do with him, really? Sit him down in front of the telly and tell him to stay put – Papa’s got to go to work?” Sherlock looks at the black TV screen as he speaks, and John doesn’t have to look to know he’s sneering at it.

 

“You could have told Lestrade no.” John snarls back. His grip on his tea cup is tight and white knuckled, he’s never been so tempted to smash it to bits. Instead, he sips and if his hands shake, Sherlock says not a word about noticing it.

 

“He _hung up_ on me!” Sherlock says instead, softly. He knows how close John is to breaking their partnership off, taking Harry so far away that Sherlock will never catch up with them. If anyone on Earth can do that, it’s John Watson, because he is what he is, and magic and wand waving and spells are only a small part of it. A small part of Sherlock Holmes thinks that John and Harry would both be better off without him, would let them run off, and wouldn’t chase them as it broke his heart.

 

“So call him back! _Merlin_ , Sherlock, you can’t just drag a toddler anywhere you want to go!” John stands, spilling tea and paying no mind to it as he paces back and forth, as if Sherlock’s got him caged here.

 

“John, please, just… please, sit down and - solve this with me, alright? I know I made a mistake, but wouldn’t you rather he be with _me_ and safe than…than with strangers?” Sherlock’s legs were tucked to his middle, his arms wrapped about them and his head cradled atop them, John hadn’t noticed, but he stops and stares at the sight. Sherlock is vulnerable, he realizes, is hurting, and he hadn’t let John see until now. John sighs and sits down beside Sherlock.

 

“Of course I want him safe Sherlock, but you’re not exactly the safest person. Neither of us is.” It’s as much rueful as truthful, and John tries to smile past the pain of admitting it.

 

“No nursery’s John, a babysitter would suffice. He should stay here, yes, but I don’t want him to be passed from stranger to stranger he should have…stability.” John’s never really asked about how Sherlock was raised, but what he says is a shadow that had to have come from the past.

 

“So, a babysitter – are you and Mycroft having any luck at finding one?” John sees Sherlock shake his head and sighs.

 

“Not a one?” John frowns, as he sees offers in the paper, and ads, surely in all of London is someone the Holmes brothers would find suitable.

 

“Everyone has something to hide, parking tickets, punctuality problems, bad grades, family instability, possible personality problems.” John snorts, for it sort of sounds like…

 

“You’re really taking this seriously aren’t you?” Sherlock frowns at him, as if doubting John’s sanity. It’s about time, what with John’s following him and Sherlock being bad for anyone’s health, but that’s beside the point.

 

“Of course, if we are going to trust someone to him, it should be the best of the best.” John can’t help but roll his eyes.

 

“Sherlock, _no one_ is perfect like that, we should just find someone nice and good with children.” Sherlock raises an eyebrow, and John just knows that isn’t enough for him. It never will be. He feels like laughing, because of course Sherlock would find every fault in others and overlook his own. Well, not overlook, because Sherlock was aware of everything, but surely ignore.

 

“They all claim to be, and who’s to say if we are away if they are right or not? Mycroft’s offered to bug them beforehand – and have a few hidden cameras here, but what could we do if something happened and we were too far away to get here in time to…to…” Sherlock looks back to the TV, and John understands all to well why he won’t finish. Sherlock’s seen the worst in people, their crimes, their causes, their results, and he can all too easily imagine crime after crime happening in his own home, to Harry.

 

John reaches out to Sherlock’s shoulder and squeezes. He stands and starts getting ready to go to work, but his pauses before the door.

 

“Alright then, we’ll figure something else out.” John thinks of the people he trusts with his life, _has_ trusted with his life – and he realizes there really are only two, Sherlock Holmes and Severus Snape. John Watson laughs, and goes to see his oldest friend.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, knowing that he’s gotten more used to John’s Apparation and Disapparition than the usual way of walking.

 

0o0o0

 

“You want me to _what_?” Severus Snape’s dark eyes are wide in disbelief. John just smiles calmly back, full of confidence that his plan will work – if Severus only gives it half a chance. He also has to bring it up with Sherlock – and introduce Harry to Severus – and Severus to Sherlock - to see what each of them makes of each other, but he’s taking it one step at a time.

 

“Watch him, take care of him – you helped to save him after all, _surely_ you can look after him once in a while as well.” Severus coughs as if he might be strangling. He runs his hands through his greasy hair, and his eyes flick about in his chambers at Hogwarts – there isn’t much here, not like at Spinner’s End.

 

“John, you might have noticed, I’m not very good with children…” Severus tapped his fingers on his chair, looking about as if searching for a way to escape, or an excuse to get away.

 

“You’re teaching them at Hogwarts right now. So that’s not a great argument there.” John feels it’s his duty to point out. The look Severus gives him doesn’t thank him for it.

 

“Yes, and I’m under Dumbledore’s eyes everywhere here – how am I ever to get away and help you to…watch the spawn?” Severus doesn’t quite flinch from the stare John levels at him.

 

“Harry James Potter _is not_ James Potter, _he is_ Lily’s son, and you have your vow to keep, let’s not forget.” Severus hisses, and stands from his seat, looking to the flickering flames as green as Lily’s eyes had been.

 

“At least…at least meet the boy Severus.” John knows that Severus is a good man, even if Severus doesn’t believe it of himself. Dark Mark be damned, it didn’t change who Severus had been and still was – if only he’d see what John did. For a long time Severus simply stared at the fire, silent and unmoving.

 

“Alright….” It was so soft it was a whisper.

 

“What?” John couldn’t be sure he had heard that it wasn’t wishful thinking.

 

“I said, _alright_ , I’ll do it, but I _won’t_ be a Professor here at Hogwarts at the same time. I’ll tell Albus I quit it. Do you know, I don’t think he’s realized Harry Potter isn’t under the blood protection wards this whole time? How…reckless, incompetent too.” Severus so rarely got the overhand on Albus Dumbledore that John knew he’d relish this chance to change things. John found he didn’t begrudge Severus that, instead he passed Severus a business card that Sherlock had had made up but never really passed out, it had his number and address and email on it, and Severus would figure it out.

 

“We’ll be expecting to see you soon, then.” Severus nods and says nothing more as he watches John go by Floo.

 

0o0o0

 

It’s five AM and someone is ringing the door bell and John Watson just might _murder_ the inconsiderate moron – doesn’t he – or she? – realize how little sleep a toddler thinks he needs? How _long_ it took to convince Harry otherwise, and that it was okay to sleep because the boogeyman wouldn’t make John and Sherlock argue again. Merlin the things Harry came up with.

 

John’s jolted awake and struggling to put on some pants over his boxers, when Sherlock arrives from upstairs with nothing but a robe on.

 

“Who is it?” Sherlock’s wide eyes match well with wild hair. Harry starts to shriek for Papa and Dada having found that he was alone in his room. He has a phobia of being alone, they’d found. John groans at hearing the thundering of three year old feet hurdling toward them from upstairs and across from Sherlock’s rooms.

 

“I don’t know but you may have to help me hide the body.” John catches the toddler that hurls himself down the stairs and into his legs. Sherlock smiles and says not a word about the plotting of murder. Anderson wouldn’t approve of John “encouraging” Sherlock to cross from pet criminal catcher to criminal master mind – but then, Anderson would never know that John had shot a man who’d been trying to tempt Sherlock into suicide.

 

“Up, up, Dada!” John Watson can’t help but obey, settling Harry onto his hip and as Sherlock goes to get the door he does to where his cane hangs at the top of the stairway. He watches from up the stairs, he’d never told Sherlock why he’d kept his cane with him when he didn’t need it, but any wizard or witch would understand that John had his wand within it.

 

“What’s all this then?” Mrs. Hudson asks as she opens her door, bat in hand, Sherlock glances to it, amused, but only shakes his head as he passes.

 

“We are about to find out.” Sherlock says as he opens the door, and frowns at what he sees – unkempt oily hair, a hooked nose, and pitch black eyes glare back at him. The man is wearing robes on the street, and Sherlock knows that’s indecent – and not at all normal in London.

 

“Well, I’m here.” The man states, as if he’s expected. Sherlock doesn’t open the door wider to let him in, only stands in the way and raises his eyebrows.   

 

“And _who_ are you?” This mans smile is sly and snake like. A part of Sherlock likes him, can’t help to be intrigued by him.

 

“Severus Snape, John should be expecting me, though you must be Sherlock Holmes. Interesting….” Severus looks Sherlock down to his bare feet and up to his untamed black hair. What he thinks of what he sees, Sherlock can’t judge. For once, Sherlock ignores that – he is sure he’ll figure Snape out, that he has time to do so, and while he doesn’t usually place worth in base instinct, just this once he’ll make an exception for his…feeling.

 

“John, do you know this man?” Sherlock isn’t in the habit of yelling, but he makes an exception when strange men visit before dawn has properly risen. He doesn’t care if he wakes the whole street doing it; after all, he’s been woken up.  

 

“Yes, yes, do let him in Sherlock; he’ll be watching Harry for us from now on.” To Sherlock’s surprised look, narrowed and measuring, Severus only smiles blandly back. Sherlock isn’t fooled; he looks as bland as a snake waiting to bite.

 

“Will he be living here too?” Mrs. Hudson asks, taking it all in stride as if it’s an ordinary thing, only to be expected along with their usual strangeness.

 

“221C Baker Street will suffice.” Severus agrees, at once, and Sherlock lets him by, thinking that the damp apartment will suit him. He isn’t sure he likes the idea of this man taking care of anyone – least of all Harry, and less likes the robes and long sleeves. He must be hiding something – and if John knows him, he isn’t the normal sort of person, likely he can do extraordinary things. It’s enough to make Sherlock feel envious after all, how many; can there be of wizards and witches? 

 

“I take it you’ve already moved in?” John asks, and to that Severus only nods in agreement. Mrs. Hudson steps forward, and Severus pauses to look down at her quite seriously.

 

“Well, alright, make yourself at home, I suppose, though you must pay rent.” Severus’s lips curl in something like a sneer. Mrs. Hudson isn’t the least deterred, and Sherlock sees the respect in him grow for her.

 

“Of course, John told me about how much he and Sherlock pay per a month, this ought to suffice for the year.” And just like that, Severus Snape hands her a bag full of clanking round coins, by the impression they make on the bag, they are metal, and Sherlock can only wait and watch, and wonder.  

 

“Oh, oh my…yes, that’s quite settled, welcome.” Mrs. Hudson opened it, and golden coins gleam in the hall light, as strange as Severus is.

 

Severus pays to attention to her reaction, or Sherlock, he looks up the stairs, where Harry is – who stares down at him with sleepy green eyes. Severus is still as any statue, barely breathing.

 

“Is that him?” Severus’s question is so quiet it’s a wonder how John can hear it, but hear it he does and his smile is tender as he looks down at Harry on his hip, in his arms.

 

“Yes, Severus, this is Harry, Lily’s son.” John introduces, and Harry giggles and waves, knowing he is the centre of attention and enjoying it. Sherlock catches Severus just barely smiling as he ducks his head and starts to climb the stairs, Harry cheering his every step nearing – and wiggling to hold out a hand for Severus to take, and take it he does, shaking gently as Harry squeezes his fingers.

 

“So he is.” Severus agrees, not hiding his small smile at the sight of the green eyed boy, grinning openly up at him, and Sherlock thinks he’ll do just fine with Harry… after both Severus and John have satisfied Sherlock’s curiosity, of course.     

 


	4. Fortunately At Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can not now quite recall what Aracil may have said, perhaps simply a request for more John and Sherlock raising Harry, and it came about that I rambled something like this ...I was thinking about doing one which deals with Hermione and Harry meeting; I don't know if you might have noticed, but I did this thing with Clara and Harriet where their name is Granger – I wanted Hermione as their little girl.

It's Harry Potter's fourth birthday, the first time that Sherlock meets – finally – the namesake of his Harry, the sister of John Watson. Harriet is in dentistry, Sherlock can tell right off, what he doesn't see is that she will become possibly the most terrifying woman he's ever met.

Firstly because a dentist is never to be messed with, someone who can tell you to smile and shine light into your face, ask precisely worded questions any interrogator would clap for, and not flinch from repeated answers when the subject knows better – well, not going into depression in dentistry is a rare thing – and after meeting Harriet, Sherlock is forced –somehow - into going to _her_ for all his mouth care.

She's very good at what she does, and what she learns while Sherlock is under a drug, she never says – but that doesn't mean she can't.

Secondly, Harriet doesn't mind blood in the least, and like her brother she misses the battle-lust, but unlike him, she didn't go into dentistry directly – what she did before involved Mycroft, and Her Majesty and MI6 in some combination that no one will talk about. It's a maddening puzzle that perhaps only Clara has figured out the whole of.

She doesn't smile right off when Sherlock answers the door, instead she looks him over, as if he's some sort of criminal instead of someone who catches them by out thinking them. Sherlock realizes that while John doesn't really talk about Harriet to Sherlock, John talks about Sherlock – quite a lot, up to including having a blog about him – and probably shares more than that with his elder sister. Harriet's hair is cut military short and is the same sort of off-blond as her brother's hair, her eyes are a cold blue and it's hard to tell what she thinks of what she's seen of him.

She's still got a soldier's tan and standing, and as an old saying goes, once a soldier - always a soldier. It's something to keep in mind, and in times like this Sherlock finds it frustrating that he's never met anyone else from John's family – does working for law enforcement, muggle or magical run in his blood?

"Ms Watson?" Sherlock inquires, just to be sure of who is staring at him so bluntly from across his own threshold. It's then that a smile tugs at Harriet's lips, and she looks to her side, where a woman and little girl stands at her side, it's not a unconscious move that had Harriet step protectively in front of them in order to greet him.

"It's Granger now." Harriet states with the pleasure of pride. It's curious to Sherlock that she's taken her wife's name – but he doesn't question it - _yet_ , he's not so crass as John thinks.

"Ah, yes, and you must be Clara?" Sherlock looks to her for the first time; she's a taller woman than Harriet is; her hair brown and curly. It has a fuzziness to it that can't be pinned down or tamed. Her eyes are a hazel that could be brown if the light was right. She smiles at Sherlock, and it speaks of secrets she knows and Sherlock will never guess.

"A pleasure to meet you, Sherlock Holmes…." Clara's voice is quiet and controlled; for all that her wild hair hides a wand tucked into it. She's wearing robes that look formal and dressy. This is a four year olds birthday party, and only family and friends will be let within 221B. Clara wares such formal robes not because of where she's going or where she's been, but because she's most comfortable in them. It's like Sherlock's brother and suits.

"This is our daughter, Hermione." So introduced, their little girl does a curtsy as well to do as anyone with royal blood. Sherlock has to wonder where they go and who they interact with that a little girl learns to do such a thing as naturally graceful as that.

"Come in." Sherlock stands aside and they do, one by one. It isn't until Clara pauses that Sherlock realizes they aren't the only ones in the hall.

"Severus! It's been too long." Clara's smile is a bright and truthful one. It's plain to see that whatever secrets she holds and hides, who she likes and loves and hates and dislikes isn't one of them. It's strange to see someone so open about their feelings, and Sherlock wonders what that's like.

"Are you joining us?" Harriet asks, with a small smile and it widens at Severus's small nod.

Sherlock leads them up the stairway, glancing to the kitchen where John is working on making a cake. All of Harry's favorite foods are mostly done, as far as Sherlock can see – and he doesn't dare ask, as John had forbidden any more badgering of chefs in the kitchen. Harriet's lips twitch at the sight of her brother in an apron and covered in flour. She heads in that direction, her intent clear to read. No one says a word about too many cooks in the kitchen, Sherlock sees it, how Clara and Severus go to the couch to keep Hermione occupied – it's familiar to them, an old routine being replayed. This is their family.

And Sherlock is accepted into it without question.

He stands watching them, as Harriet and John work side by side in the kitchen that John's always complained is too crowded if Sherlock so much as stepped a toe out of line while John was mixing or baking or cooking up something to make. By his sister's side, it's like watching two bodies working with one mind.

Clara wraps a arm around Hermione, and Severus opens up and talks like Sherlock's never seen, and he gets a glimpse at what makes Severus a good teacher, not his mood, but his animation, his passion for any subject he really talks about freely. Hermione's eyes, brown and big are fixed on him as she listens intently.

Sherlock has to wonder if wizards and witches aren't a bit brighter at this age than 'muggle' children, or if it's simply that Sherlock's not paid much attention to how children are raised, simply accepted those children that come from the streets as they are and tried to make them see the best of themselves. If giving them hope made them "useful" to Sherlock, it was only a small scale of what governments did to everyone. His Irregulars were a point of pride, they were always clothed – and fed, and given a "fee" for watching for what Sherlock didn't see.

Sherlock hears their arrival, a rattling on the door along with a familiar tread of feet. Sherlock would roll his eyes at how obvious it all seems. He turns off the light, putting finger to his lips, and Harriet and John duck out of sight behind the kitchen counter, while Clara and Hermione and Severus try their best to hide behind the back of the couch. Sherlock waits to see his brother's eyes before he steps into the shadows inside _221B_ Baker Street.

Harry manages the last of the steps on his own, looking about worriedly into the darkened apartment.

"Where'd-?"

"Surprise!" John had managed to get four candles lit and pops up like a shadow with a will-o-wisp. Harry yelps, everyone shouts 'Happy Birthday Harry!', and Sherlock turns on the lights hoping everything has been a success.

Hermione giggles at the look on Harry's face, as his wide green eyes take it all in, and he grins and can't stop grinning.

Harry and Hermione sit side by side and have cake; the only snare to the evening comes from a gift that Severus had presented, a potions kit, which is less an actual starter on potions and more a safety game of the art. It catches both Harry's and Hermione's eyes, and there is almost a fight over it, until John insists they try first to play together.

To Sherlock's surprise, that suggestion goes over smoothly between the two children.

It would never have worked with Mycroft and he, sharing and such - but perhaps like Harriet and John, Harry and Hermione will be raised to rely on someone day-to-day rather than only risk called for it. Sherlock recalls Anderson's sneer and Donovan's shock at the sight of Harry so near to him, and Lestrade's fear – not of Sherlock, but for a little boy. John's reaction had only cemented it. Sherlock might not need many friends, but he had them – and so would Harry.

Sherlock smiles just a little. He catches Mycroft's eye and knows he's not the only one that can think of a bright future for his Harry. Better, Severus will be blamed for the early potions interest – and if Sherlock sneaks a little science into their play, it won't be noticed until it's far too late to unlearn.

Bright and early next day, Harry insists on seeing Hermione, a body is found on Monday morning posed in front of the Tower of London – and Sherlock makes a hasty call to Harriet begging her to take Harry for a bit because they aren't sure of his safety. The body found had been a boy Harry's age and look-alike and the implication for Sherlock had been as clear to see as the blood.

Severus never seems to mind following Harry along on the trips to Clara and Harriet's house, and if he's perhaps more comfortable with them than living beside John and Sherlock he never says. Sherlock won't stop what he does, and John won't stop standing beside him in the thick of it.

It isn't until the case is settled and Harry asks his Dada and Papa to go see his sister _Her_ -MY-oh-knee that they realize they've been adopted, and their family is twice what it was. It's a gift that Harry's given them, and they do say you can't choose your family.

Family, Sherlock finds, chooses you.


	5. The Flux of Influence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guest's prompt: I have a mental image of the scene in Dumble's office where Snape, Watson and Holmes are having a parent-teacher conference, along with 'Uncle' Mycroft-and Dumble's shock when he realizes that as much influence as he has in the wizarding world, he can't push around Harry's family in the slightest. I also rather suspect that Mycroft will have introduced Harry to Her Majesty a time or six, and will suspect-if not know all about-the prophesy, and be 'taking steps'.

"Headmaster." Severus Snape greets, meeting the elder wizard's blue eyes but his dark ones go to John Watson, almost apologetically. John's lips are tightly together and he glares at the fire as if he wants to go. Albus can not say he blames John Watson for wanting to do so. It's a story that Dumbledore has only bits and pieces of, the odds and ends of a puzzle, how Harry Potter has come into this wizard's care.

A story that Albus Dumbledore wants to hear in whole, but doubts he ever will – not for his unwillingness to learn, but for the knowing of something is to have some small power over it – and John Watson isn't the sort to want anyone to have any power if he can help it – not even himself.

"Snape." Albus is well aware of the bite in Snape's greeting and it's warning to his companions. John's muggle friend looks at everything in Albus Dumbledore's office with curious eyes, but when he meets Albus's eyes boldly, the wizard can tell just how little the shiny distracting trinkets impresses him.

"Shall we begin?" Albus asks, knowing the meeting must begin sometime and the sooner – in some cases – the better.

"Why not?" The muggle speaks, almost rude with how amused he is, and it surprises Albus that he does so - and more so that neither John Watson nor Severus Snape nay-say him. Instead he pats John's clenched hand, and leans forward to meet Albus's eyes. A bold move for a wizard or witch who might guess their danger in doing so with so powerful a wizard as Albus Dumbledore - but hardly a fair fight for a muggle, and one which Albus does not indulge in – no matter his curiosity, for the two very capable wizards watching him so warily.

"Harry has been an excellent student at Hogwarts, doing very well when he applies himself." Albus has seen it himself, how Harry seems to take seriously some subjects – Potions, Transfiguration, Charms, and Magical Creatures; but dismiss others, History and Divination among them. A quick, almost sly smile crosses the lips of the muggle man.

"Of course, he's a clever boy our son." Those eyes flick to John and Severus, teasingly, almost taunting before he looks again at Albus.

"His friendships have, I admitted, caused some stir." Albus had seen it the first day of Sorting, when Hermione and Harry had come into the Great Hall side by side. He'd won over the Longbottom boy and the youngest Weasley son on the train ride over. That had been natural enough, but there was also the worrying matter over Harry's budding friendship with Draco Malfoy.

They sometimes bickered, and their rows were legendary when it happened they disagreed. Most namely over Harry, a First Year, riding on a team that Draco couldn't join in his Year, natural or not a natural born rider, the reasons going from fairness to his friends to safety. Harry had turned down being Seeker, heeding Draco if only to sooth the rift between them. Albus had hope that if he could keep them apart this summer, that rift would grow and Harry would favor his –well – more _favorable_ friends.

Severus couldn't see the matter as it stood for being Draco's godson, and John could hardly know better, choosing to live as he did, as much with muggle-minded as the roommate whose company Harry had grown up with.

"Have they now?" The muggle man's hands pressed together, and his smile grew, almost proudly. Albus hadn't snooped into Harry's mail but he wondered how much Harry had told them. Quite a lot, if Albus was to guess by the smug look of the muggle. Albus, for once, worried over the fact that the muggle hadn't yet introduced himself by name, and that so far neither John or Severus had given his away his identity. It was an unknown that Albus was becoming uncomfortable with.

"Yes, quite so, worryingly so - not dangerous to him, or his friends, but still surprising in our world." The more so it would be, if it was learned that Harry had kept his friendship with Hagrid – a half-giant, once with the potential to be a wizard but now with not but a broken wand. That, Albus hadn't expected, but did not disapprove of, Hagrid was loyal in his ways to all who treated him with kindness.

"I think it best if Harry Potter stay at Hogwarts over the summers between this year and Seventh." Albus meets the eyes of a muggle, a wizard with a Dark Mark, and one who is war torn, and expects to be agreed with. He isn't.

"Is that so?" The muggles eyes flicked to the fire, and though Albus hadn't questioned them about keeping it burning – it was understandable that John was uncomfortable with wizarding things after so long among muggles, and that Severus would want a way open to come and go as he pleased, but neither had looked so often to the fire as the muggle did – and for the first time Albus wondered who's request had been the driving force for the fireplace being kept open to Floo.

The fire flared green, and a man stepped forward into Albus's office, umbrella in hand, he nodded to the younger muggle whose smile grew into something eager and sharp, like the look a wolf wore when its pack was at its back and there was a sure kill at the end of a hunt.

"Who's this?" Albus asked, as if untroubled by the stray quick look he had caught sight of upon the muggle's features.

"My elder brother, you could say he is Harry's…uncle. He's the British Ministry." Albus tilted his head in greeting to the newcomer, who simply stares solemnly about the room, before meeting Albus's eyes quite calmly. If ever there is a time that Albus is tempted to peer into a mind, it is now, but he will not – not because he can not – but because he feels that this muggle would somehow know.

"Sherlock, John, Severus." The British Ministry greets each man by his first name, his expression unchangingly bland. In those words he proves to be familiar with them – and know more than Albus, for the Headmaster had struggled his way through the meeting without knowing the muggle's name. He looks again upon Albus Dumbledore, and his eyes linger almost uncomfortably long.

"Albus Dumbledore, Her Majesty sends her regards – and, a message; Harry Potter is under the protection of the British Ministry and Her Majesty has full faith in me to protect her godson, my nephew, from any and every harm." At that the muggle man, the younger brother of the British Ministry stands up, smirking as if he's the cat and has just had the mouse delivered to the door.

"You're not the British Minister…" Albus trails off, when the British Ministry smiles almost as if Albus is an amusing child.

"No, I'm his superior - as well as the superior of the Ministry of Magic's Minister as of this morning." The British Ministry shows an envelope in his pocket, one with the Great Seal of the Realm upon it. .

"Well, if that's all? We'll be going, won't we John?" John Watson follows as amiably as if he's familiar with and welcomes such strangeness. Severus Snape looks after them as the two Floo away, and is the only witness to Albus Dumbledore narrowing his eyes at the muggle, the so called British Ministry, and the smile of the muggle when Albus's eyes grow wide. Severus recognizes the signs of an attempted – and failed – Legilimens.

"That won't do, and you won't do it again – any of it, am I understood?" The British Ministry holds tightly onto the cane and smiles as if he's got a secret. Severus is sure he has many secrets, but there is only one which could make Albus pale so.

"Indeed." The Headmaster says, softly, and his blue eyes do not meet the British Ministry's again.

"Further, Headmaster Dumbledore, do remember, wizard or no wizard, you are a subject of Her Majesty…I think it high time I look into the affairs of wizards and witches, least they think themselves outside Her Majesty's Realm. We'll start with the matter of Gellert Grindelwald, shall we? Her Majesty and I are _most_ interested in that man…" Severus smiles a bit at that, and goes through the Floo.

He has a feeling Albus Dumbledore has more to worry about now than where Harry spends his summers.


	6. What Remains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy14’s prompt: I can imagine Dumbledore visiting to try to put Harry back at the Dursleys. It would be interesting to hear Harry call him on his manipulations and half truths.

Harry is his Papa’s son, and so when someone knocks on the door and he is just back from his First Year’s summer his curiosity to answer the door gets the best of him. He is eleven (almost twelve) and feels no danger in answering a door, or in opening a book.

 

Hermione might disagree, but she is Dada’s niece and Papa has muttered that Dada was the immovable object to a Holmes’s unstoppable force. Harry is a Potter, not a Holmes, or a Watson – he is a part of both, but blood of neither. So he answers the door (as a Holmes would), and recognize who stands white haired and robed in purple with silver stars and a wizard’s hat tilting sideways, on the threshold and doesn’t open the door wider to invite him in (as no Watson would, despite the mystery of it).

 

“Headmaster….” Harry is surprised, somehow, he had thought the matter settled of where Harry spent his summers – Mycroft had certainly told Sherlock that was so. Harry likes Hogwarts, as a school it’s brilliant and there is none better – but home, home is better. Harry can be himself at home, not a hero.

 

“Harry, may I come in?” Dumbledore asks, but Harry is already shaking his head to deny him.

 

“No, why would I? Severus is home, but he’s hardly well – sick with something, makes him terribly irritable. He wouldn’t want any position you might offer him at Hogwarts today, or tomorrow – I’d think it’d be safer to Floo or Owl ahead next time you want to talk to him. Hermione is at her home, not here – and I can’t think why you’d visit her, either. My Papa is away with Dada to the Museum, the Parthenon Marbles are plotting a way home to Greece again and Mycroft says they simply can’t go without notice like that, but they are goddesses and gods – and Greek – so think they go where they will, and honestly there is very little to stop them once they get a idea like that going I think.” Harry knows very well that he has a way with words, Hermione is quiet in her bookish ways, but Harry – Harry would babble it all away if he wanted… just to get and keep the upper hand.

 

“Are you are home alone then, Harry?” Headmaster Albus Dumbledore asks, and Harry smiles as if he isn’t aware of what Albus is really asking – inside his head Harry notices the pieces to why his Headmaster is here are falling into proper place. If Albus, the Headmaster of Hogwarts can write to the Ministry saying that Harry would be under better guardianship at Hogwart’s proper than his own home, well – Harry would find himself put there, for his own good. It’s something that Harry will not let happen.

 

“Why, not at all Headmaster, I didn’t say that – weren’t you listening? Severus is watching over me, of course - sick doesn’t mean he’s obtuse. Mrs. Hudson is making lunch soon, was there something you wanted, sir?” Harry smiles up at Albus, because being young doesn’t make Harry stupid either.   

 

“Well, I recall you are an orphan Harry - and I remember that time in my life when I was young and without a parent was very troubling and I would not have become who I am without my relatives to guide me. I took the trouble to send a letter to Petunia Dursley, your mother’s sister, and if you would like to go to visit her for the summer, I would be happy to arrange sometime for you to sit down to meet her – I understand she has a young son your age, Dudley from her ex-husband Vernon …” Harry’s grip has gotten tighter and tighter, his knuckles pale as he holds his fist behind his back but as he shakes his head, and laughs like a cough, forcing Albus’s words to stop there something bitter and a little choking in his laugh.

 

“I’ve met them Headmaster Dumbledore, in fact - before I ever went to Hogwarts it’s something I wished I never asked Papa to find out for me.” Harry’s lips twist in the memory of his Uncle Vernon. Sherlock must have said something to Mycroft about him, because shortly after meeting with Harry - Vernon had lost his job and Petunia had found she was devoicing from the man she had married – loving her idea of who he was - but never gotten to properly know, Dudley and she were in the end better off without him. 

 

Harry was willing to go over to Petunia’s for a visit once in a while, but the Headmaster didn’t need to know that about them.

 

“I’m sorry to hear that Harry, but perhaps you would like spending your time this summer at Hogwarts, better? Life in the city is something very few wizards and witches like to do, and it is calmer at Hogwarts with its lake and forest and little village, I’ve always thought.” Harry shrugs, playing to his age and that he doesn’t care one way or another about peace and quiet or busy and bright.

 

“Yes, Hogwarts is a lovely place to go to school at Headmaster, and I’m sure a nice place to visit for the summer – but home is best for me, and I like it here in London, keeps the mind active – and you meet the most interesting people.” Harry has been careful not to meet Albus’s twinkling blue eyes ever since the first time, and this time he smiles past the Headmaster to catch attention of Wiggins one of the best of Papa’s Baker Street Irregulars.

 

“Well, I best go, if there is nothing I can do to help you, Harry.” Albus Dumbledore looks and sees a boy a little older than Harry tip his hat and stand staring at him from across the street eyeing the Headmaster suspiciously, he takes a mobile cell phone from his pocket and Harry knows that Sherlock is going to learn very shortly about the Headmaster of Hogwarts visiting their home.

 

“Good day, sir.” Harry Potter keeps his manners, although as Wiggins makes his way across the street and smirks up at Albus as he passes, he can’t help but roll his eyes.

 

“Alright, Harry?” Wiggins asks, wrapping a protective arm about the younger boy. He feels how tense with nervous Harry had become from the confrontation – and that too, will likely go into his report to Sherlock – even if Harry never hears it.

 

“Fine, Wiggins, just fine. Tea?” Wiggins smells of concrete dust and of dried paint, he calls himself an artist, his canvas the whole city’s walls and sidewalks - but he is homeless. Harry doesn’t care if Albus looks back and sees, or doesn’t, Wiggins is probably hungry and his work (not his job, not his art) is in information, what he knows from being on the street could probably fill up newspapers more truthfully than most people wanted to see

 

Papa has always said that people live on the streets was they saw too much, knew too much, and didn’t want to fit into how the world thought it all ought to work.

 

“Don’t mind if I do, dear.” Wiggins glances down the street, but Albus Dumbledore isn’t there anymore, it’s something that Wiggins narrows his eyes to see the lack of.

 

“Magic.” Harry offers, and Wiggins chuckles – not because he doesn’t believe – but because he _does_ , and there isn’t a Ministry in the world that could take that from him.

 

“Course he is, you are too, doesn’t mean he gets to take you out of your home, Harry.” Wiggins’s words are heard by Mrs. Hudson, who is so charmed she makes him tea and gives him sandwiches to eat (and a bag to take away) and offers supper – which he says he’ll stay for, but not the night. He’s got a place.

 

It’s alright, Harry says, Wiggins will be back again soon some other time – at that Wiggins laughs a little at the ‘presumption of Wiggins person’ – but doesn’t argue it too badly. Wiggins promises to be a friend – and Harry would have it no other way.

 

(Harry needs all the friends he can get.) 

 

 


End file.
